


Pygmalion & Galatea

by MONANIK



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Paris, Artist Keith (Voltron), F/M, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Insomnia, Lance is a statue, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Orphan Keith (Voltron), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Keith (Voltron), Pan Keith (Voltron), Paris (City), Pining Keith (Voltron), Pygmalion, References to Depression, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), allura is Aphrodite, based off pretzellus work, fUCK ME, i accidentally deleted this once, pygmalion and galatea au, sculptor keith, thank god that i save all my fanfics on my computer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-03 03:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17276234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MONANIK/pseuds/MONANIK
Summary: Keith is a newly settled-down sculptor in the city of love, an artist of spectacular talent.But the lonely artist longs for something more, something intimate, someone to hold.So, with his heart on his sleeve he sculpts the masterpiece of his life.A masterpiece so breathtaking you'd expect it to come alive...





	1. Do I Look Lonely?

**Author's Note:**

> FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, END ME I ACCIDENTALLY DELETED THIS STORY ONCE AND WITH IT ALL MY COMMENTS AND KUDOS.  
> If you subscribed to the story and lost it, it's here again. 
> 
> Anyways, this story is heavily inspired and based off @pretzellu 's art, please do check out their statue AU!  
> Huge thanks to them for letting me write this story.
> 
> Note: This story won't follow Pretzellu's work exactly and the Romelle/Keith is very minor.

Do I look lonely?

I see the shadows on my face.

People have told me I don’t look the same.

 

-

 

For lack of better words, he felt loneliest below the foreign streetlights. Miles and miles east of where he’s known home to be for so many years. Or maybe the loneliness is a gnawing, constant in his life. Maybe he’s not meant to escape it ever.

How he ended up in the city of love, he didn’t know. Something about it— perhaps the stories of his youth, and the letters from his missing mother where she praises the city for bringing her the life she’d lost— are to blame for his sudden decision. In less than a year he left it all behind, the place he’d known as home, and flew across the Atlantic to the ever story-loved Paris.

Here, amongst couples walking hand in hand, his lack of better understanding of people was only enhanced. Shoved into his face as a ruthless reminder of all the things he was not. Would never be. Never have.

So, he walked along the cobbled roads. Gazed at the age-old buildings; so mistakenly European. Every once in a while, when he earned time for it, he would visit some of the many art galleries and museums which housed some of the world’s finest works of art. _Louvre_ quickly became a favorite. Often times he’d wander the densely packed halls of the establishment and lose himself in the world of a time ago. His favorite was the _Winged Victory of Samothrace._ The gentle slope of the wings, the fabric of the dress which draped over her body; it all made for a spectacular sculpture, carved as if made of pure adoration.

Today, however, he decided against visiting any fancy, old museums. His day at university had chosen not to spare him in the least, despite his lack of sleep— especially that day. Everything around him was foggy, and the ache in his legs was spreading through his body and up to his brain; as uncooperative as his eyes. Shiro had insisted he take a day off ( _“Sleep. Recharge!”_ ) and Keith had merely nodded courtly in response, smiled and assured him that _yes, he would._ It had all been a mere act to erase his friend’s worries. Keith— better than anyone— knew very well how sleep was off the radar. He couldn’t recall a single night in his life where his dreams weren’t plagued with terror, when his time for rest truly made him feel well rested, or when his awakenings didn’t involve either horrific panic attacks or a sense of unwavering emptiness. An emptiness which lingered in his waking life and slowed every movement of his limbs. He was lucky his hands retained knowledge better than his brain, otherwise his work would fall victim to the agony which were his nights.

 

As he walked down the street and watched the people around him, he allowed himself to indulge in the beauty of the scenery he had blessed himself with.

The city was no where as big as most cities he’s visited in the past, especially cities in the USA, but it was a city of history. A city of countless geniuses— both in the literary, artistic and theatrical fields as well as the scientific fields. When his feet dragged over the cobbled roads, when his nose noted the scent of freshly baked bread, and when his eyes gazed over the tower looming in the distance he felt completely at home. Relaxed, even, if he’d allow himself to stretch it.

Nothing felt as rejuvenating as wandering the streets where cafés stood lined up one after the other, all brimmed with youth and bustling with laughter and joy. A bittersweet scenery, certainly.

 

-

 

All evenings, nights and days spent at his little apartment— a very central apartment, one which cost him a great deal— were spent working passionately on everything you’d associate with the mind of an artist. On his floor lay piles and piles of books: some notebooks, most sketchbooks and various art-books. He owned his fair share of collections and could no longer count the sketchbooks used and thrown about on the floor. A ‘vicious workaholic’ is what Shiro calls him. Keith simply feels as though he’s truly obsessed with his work, of every exhausting aspect of it. There was a comfort there, in the countless hours of details and sculpting and painting. It tired him out and earned him at least a few hours of sleep every night, much to his new-found buddy’s disapproval.

His apartment was an absolute mess, much like his head. There was paint, brushes and clay all over the place. An entire room was left completely empty and was now being used as a studio where various sculptures filled every nook and cranny. It was the fanciest room, by far, with a full-length mirror on one side. It cast entrancing shadows on the soft curves of sculpted bodies, and the sun’s rays grazed the surface so delicately that even he felt proud of his own work, a feeling he felt much unfamiliar with.

And perhaps this day had been no different had it not been for his sudden change in heart. Somewhere along the road home he’d decided to work just a little harder, to push a little further. A sense of immense inspiration washed over him, toppled him, and sent him barreling into his own apartment and straight to his studio.

Rushed, but delicately, he worked on finishing his biggest project yet— a full body sculpture of a young man. He’d decided to dub the project _a Knight Without His Armor_ , for the young man was dressed in nothing. All he wore was a simple cloth, draped over one shoulder and falling sensually over and around his hips. One leg was bent, situated high enough for his arm to rest upon. The pose was casual, restful, the expression full of bliss and calm. In the light of the afternoon sun, his face seemed to glow with the youthfulness Keith himself lacked, the youthfulness he’d witnessed that day down the street.

So he worked and worked until his eyes felt sore and his hands shook from exhaustion. With a stroke of finality, he leaned back and observed his creation, glowing in the setting sun.

And for the first time, he felt _happy._ For the first time in a long time he felt truly accomplished in his work, satisfied with the results.

The man before him had been carved to perfection, looking like everything Keith dreamed to hold— to hold him— when nights get cold and when his dreams are clouded in terror. His features were soft but well defined, few sharp edges except for the slanted nose with his high nose-bridge, and the sharp edges of his jawline. He opted for a less dramatic figure, something softer and more pleasing to the eyes. Therefore, he’d made him a slim body; thin waist, long limbs and fingers but broad shoulders.

He sighed at the sight before him, melancholy in his realization at best.

“You’d make a fine husband.” He mumbled to the statue, absentmindedly wiping his tools clean for the day, “Too bad you’re a statue.” He whispered, more so to himself and his ever-growing desperation.

From the apartment next to him, through the paper-thin walls, he could hear two people speaking loudly to each other. He couldn’t make out what they were saying.

With a final sigh he called it a day and placed back his tools. He walked out of the room reluctantly, turning once more to view his creation from afar. By the window, under the glowing last sunrays, he truly looked absolutely breathtaking. If only he could find someone like that, someone as soft and gentle.

But his dreams were mere childish fantasies, fueled by his lack of sleep and slowed brain. So, he turned off the lights, and closed the door behind him.


	2. How Rare & Beautiful it is that We Exist

I couldn’t help but ask for you to say it all again.

  
I tried to write it down, but I could never find a pen.

  
I’d give anything to hear you say it one more time:

that the universe was made just to be seen by my eyes.

 

-

_Like kissed by the stars of the sky, the dark frame around his pale skin made a sight for sore eyes. As he lay there, fragile and vulnerable, those fierce violets closed; lashes fluttering gently— she felt nothing but deep sorrow course through her being. How come such a gentle creature lay before her, open and lonely and left to himself. Were she one of the many boys and girls wandering the streets outside, her heart would long ago have soared out of her chest and into the palms of his hands. Her defenses would fall for the boy with nebulas in his eyes._

_Yet he lay there before her, squirming and turning in his restless slumber, alone in the bright moonlight._

_Perhaps she could spare him, ease his soul from its suffering— from the grip loneliness has on his throat. In the illuminating glow of the man in the sky, she made her decision, and with the gentle swipe of a finger over pink lips she made a promise._

_In the studio outside, where statues slept, she brushed gently the smooth marble of the bare knight and gave to him the life on the boy’s lips, the life he wished so strongly to be given the artwork by the window. And as the moon shone brighter, and the stars fell from the sky, the knight before her was blessed with the bluest of blue— the kiss of the sky as it lingered in his eyes. His skin, the hidden sun caressed with love, and brought to it its unwavering warmth. His limbs, the gentle breeze of the night brought to life like the feather-soft clouds in the sky._

_Before her departure her lips grazed his temple— a kiss for life and a kiss for love— and as dawn came, she disappeared with the man on the moon. The white of her hair reflective in the starlight._

 

-

 

When the sun rose outside his window, and the first tickle of warmth was cast on his skin, he groggily woke from his restless dream and smashed his clenched fist over the clock by his bedside, silencing its persistent ringing.

On the other side, through the paper-thin walls, he could hear the voices of two people speaking in hushed tones. Again, he couldn’t hear a word they said, so he rose from the warmth of his bed and dragged the weight of his body across his room and towards the welcoming shower in his cramped bathroom.

Once he felt clean and awake, he grabbed his coat and boots and the keys from the hallway, checked for his wallet and his phone, and walked out of his apartment. Like always, he sauntered over to the small bakery down across the street, under the shadows of the trees on the sidewalk.

The welcoming cling of the bell as he entered warmed something inside of him, something which usually remained untouched. This feeling of calm and comfort early in the morning was what kept him going.

Behind the counter stood a girl his age. Half of her hair was tied up behind her head, while the rest was left to drape over her slim shoulders. In stature, she was small, but her voice carried her far above him. When she noticed his arrival her lips quirked upwards, her posture stiffened, and her hands went to hastily adjust the apron around her waist.

“G-good morning, sir!” she stuttered her greeting, as high and nervous as always.

“Mornin’.” He nodded courtly and scanned the menu above her head. His hands were shoved into his pockets, fiddling with the keys and the wallet absentmindedly as he thought.

Despite her efforts, he could sense the intensity of her gaze as it scanned him from tip to toe. Nothing about it was lustful, but rather an innocent admiration— a million words unspoken. He sighed quietly, eyes still on the menu, and decided that he was in a good mood on this particular day. Maybe he could help her along.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.” He said and caught her eyes.

She laughed and ducked her head, cheeks flushing a bright pink.

“I’m terribly sorry, sir.” She said, “I was merely admiring your appearance. Please don’t take it the wrong way!” she told him truthfully.

He couldn’t help but smile his brightest at the ridiculous display and chuckled lightheartedly to catch her attention. It worked, and her eyes rose to meet his. Wide and curious and framed with the flaming of her skin.

“Was just messin’ with you.” He said and cast a glance behind him to make sure he wasn’t keeping the line. When no sight of an angry customer huffing in annoyance greeted him, he turned back to the flustered employee. 

He reached out his pocket-warm hand towards her, “Keith, by the way.”

Hesitantly she reached out her own and clasped it gently around his. The blush on her cheeks calmed a fraction. Her hand was adorably small and fragile around his calloused tools.

“Sorry.” She said once more, then tightened her grip as she added: “Romelle, by the way. Nice to meet you.”

She smiled at him, soft and welcoming, and he smiled right back.

“I’ll have one of those red velvet cupcakes you have on display over there. To go.” He said and handed her his card.

She nodded swiftly and swiped it, eyes glued to the task at hand, refusing to acknowledge him in the least. Must be flustered still.

“Thank you, sir. I hope it suits your tastes.” She mustered up her most powerful grin and handed him the brown paper bag, “Have a nice day!”

With a nod and a smirk, he took his cupcake and turned to leave, leaving behind a very flustered Romelle. Perhaps she thought he wouldn’t notice, but the glass windows betrayed her. In front of him, where the open hours sign hung, in the newly-cleaned glass, he saw the reflection of her as her hands cupped her cheeks and her gaze remained firmly set on the width of his frame as he exited the shop.

Every morning the same story, and every morning it makes him smile all the same— knowing that there’s still innocent souls like Romelle out there, walking the Earth and living their perfectly adorable fairytale lives. If there was one thing she reminded him of, it had to be the fairies in the fairytales his father read him as a child. It warmed from within.

And as he made his way back to his apartment, where books and papers and unfinished paintings littered the space, he thought of the tentative way she smiled below rows of lashes. Not because he fancied her, no. Sure, she was a true beauty, but the reason for his giddiness was the knowledge that he’d managed to converse with a mere stranger. It didn’t happen often, and when it does it never leaves him feeling this accomplished and delighted. He could count the times silly, narcissistic strangers approached in the hopes of getting something out of him— usually something as simple though annoying as his number, occasionally something much more intimate. He never spares them a second thought and ignores their thrown about insults as he passes by, not having it in him to care. Alas the harsh reality of it hurts. How come he rarely encounters admirers who want nothing more than his presence, a light sight for their worn eyes, or a conversation to brighten their day if only a little?

His frequents to the little bakery across the street have taught him a lot about his not-so-secret secret admirer with the honey-blond hair and bright, lilac eyes and a voice too high for a frame so small.

For one, she _really_ likes his appearance, but she never says it. She only watches from afar. Sometimes— when she’s feeling particularly daring— up close. But she never did anything about it, never asked for his number or a date or anything of the sorts. His frequent morning visits seem more than enough, for every time he enters her face breaks out into a smile worth a million. Today was the first time he heard her openly admit to her ogling, and only because he provoked her to it.

A smile spread wide at the recollection, and further smeared the frosting on his lips.

He clapped his hands a few times to brush off the remainder of the crumbs stuck to his fingers, and threw away the bag and the piece of paper the good had been wrapped in. A sigh escaped, content rather than purely exhausting in its nature as he stood and walked over to the closed door of his studio. The sun seeped in with its warmth from every small opening in the apartment and cast shadows where furniture stood in its way.

His mind wandered freely, not bothering to focus on the natural act of entering his studio and walking through the crowd of statues. Perhaps that was why he didn’t notice it at first. Not until he’d picket up his tools and stood before the piece from yesterday.

The same piece which sat blinking and breathing before him.

 

Outside the morning sun still hung low in the sky. It cast a backlit glow on the figure in front of him, lean and bronzed and with eyes so blue it seemed to him as if they were mere holes and what he was looking at was the sky out the window behind, bright in the daylight. The brightness of the sunlight behind him made something like fiery wings behind him, a true angel.

The knight before him, dressed in nothing but a silken cloth, took a deep breath and stilled as their eyes met; his violets against oceans of blue. The pale tiredness of his skin in front of a canvas of sand and warmth and summer afternoons. His black locks against the short chestnut of his work.

Two clear-blue eyes widened, and a pair of pink lips parted, and next thing was a voice so soft and quiet he could as well have brushed it off as a hallucination, a figment of his lonely mind. Surely, he must have gone completely insane? There was absolutely no way his marble statue sat before him breathing and blinking and moving. All in bright colors, with soft skin and real hair, real lashes, the real warmth of real breath as his shaky exhale ghosted over his skin.

He tried to speak, but his throat deceived him. Dry and cracking, not letting him utter a single sound. Instead, he lifted a hand and reached out to touch him, to feel for himself if what he was seeing was real or a trick of his sick mind.

The knight didn’t flinch or back away— he barely reacted with more than a glance at the approaching hand.

As his palm settled on a tan cheek, and his thumb brushed the softest of lips, he realized with a heavy lump in his throat that the statue from yesterday had earned a life of its own.

“You’re…” he started, voice a soft whisper between the warmth of two living bodies, “Who are you…?” he asked.

Tears were clouding his vision, but he couldn’t look away from the boy as he spoke: “I think I’m yours.”

“Mine?” he heard himself asking, both hands now cupping his cheeks, “You’re not mine.” He said and allowed himself to blink away the tears, to will his heart to stop aching, “You’re…”

He looked closely at the boy in his palms, noted the calm and the power. The uncertainty of the waves of the ocean, and the tempting depths of its blues. His fingers traced downwards, trailed his neck and landed on his shoulder, felt softly at the draped fabric. _A Knight Without his Armor_.. _._

“You’re _Lance._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curse this cursed website and it's weird bugs but also thank you AO3


	3. I Get to Love You

_They say love is a journey, I promise that I’ll never leave._  
When it’s too heavy to carry, remember this moment with me.  
I get to love you.

 

-

 

But his expression turned questioning.

“Lance…?” he asks, “I thought I was yours?”

And the sunlit halo around his chestnut locks made him look truly ethereal. He’d never witnessed something this breathtaking, enchanting before. He truly outdid himself with this one, didn’t he?

His brain couldn’t quite believe what his eyes were seeing. This human before him, that he created, so honestly yearned to be his— no, believed so.

“You made me, didn’t you?” he continued, a hand clenching the fabric by his hips and slowly bringing it up to his protruding collarbones; where they stretch the fine, golden skin, “Does being Lance mean I can’t be yours?” he asks.

And just like that everything falls into its rightful place. The crumbled pieces drifting inside, stuck in a loop of endless nights and painful memories, suddenly fall into place.

The boy before him, with his ocean gaze, seems deeply troubled by the thought of not being his. Of being anything but Keith’s. So, curse him, if you will, but how could an outcast soul such as his ever reject a proclamation of love that blatant? Forgive him for disregarding the practically new-born human’s ignorance, but a sight as soft and welcoming as the statue before him made him lose all sense of morality.

 _Screw it,_ he thought and lent down, enveloped his lips with a pair of his own— chapped and trembling with a long-since buried longing finally surfacing against all restraints.

His lips, soft as daisies and as sweet as honey, sent him spiraling down and into the infinity of something he had yet earned the words to describe. Something so captivating, encasing, that it left him fumbling for air he hadn’t even realized he’d lost. Something so enclosing it drew spirals of warmth on his skin and sent shivers like that of a passing summer breeze through his trembling body.

The boy before him lifted a pair of shaky hands towards him, and brushed gently the tears trailing his cheeks, lips pressed against his. Not a sound or movement of resistance ever came through to the starved artist, but rather sighs of joy and pleasure. It made the newly-fitted pieces in him rattle against the confides of his ribs, sending soft vibrations through skin and bones.

“Lance,” he breathlessly began, reluctant to not have his lips pressed against Lance’s, but realizing the importance of what needed to be said.

“I’ve been yours for much longer than you’ve been mine.”

A heated palm traced the softness of caramel skin, a pair of violet sunsets watched a soft flush graze his cheeks, and like that their path begins. Hand in hand, cheek to cheek, with the world at their fingertips.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It seems almost, alive...


End file.
